Pacing over to the window, I look out at the sea. I wonder if Jake/Jack/James has realized he has the wrong bag yet. Maybe he did the same thing as me, felt annoyed at first, then curious about the owner. I wonder what my possessions might say about me. I regret not packing my decent underwear now. With a jolt of anxiety, I realize that my diary is in that bag. The inner monologue of a grief-stricken twenty-nine-year-old woman might not be the best introduction to a potential soulmate. I shake my head. The book is clearly a diary; what kind of weirdo would go through someone else’s personal possessions? I look back at the bed, where I have unpacked and inspected the entire contents of this man’s case. Oh.
I find the number for Jersey Airport. The phone rings twice, then a recorded message tells me the airport is closed. What kind of airport closes at eight fifteen on a Thursday night? I suppose a small island airport where the last plane lands at seven p.m. I pace the room. This is a setback. It’s Thursday today, and I’m leaving on Sunday, so I don’t have long. I guess I can set up a meeting to exchange the cases tomorrow morning, but it would probably be better if the beginning-of-the-rest-of-my-life started tonight.
I do what I always do when I need advice; I call Dee.
“Dee—you’ll never guess—something amazing has happened.” I can hardly contain my excitement.
“You found out you’re Jersey royalty? Queen Le Quesne of the Channel Islands? You get your own herd of cows and a lifetime’s supply of potatoes.”
I laugh, and then flop back onto the bed and tell her all about the suitcase. Dee cuts me off. “Wait, what? You’re telling me you lost your case and all your things, but you’re excited because . . . some random guy has it?”
“Well, yes, it’s logistically annoying, but all these signs, Dee, it can’t be a coincidence, can it? How many bags in how many airports, in how many countries, would have my favorite book, my favorite music, and my mother’s perfume in? Plus, my ideal man jumper and the—”
“Laura,” Dee says firmly, “your life is not a film. People do not meet future partners by accidentally spilling coffee over each other, or getting stuck in lifts, or beneath trees while seeking shelter from freak lightning storms, or through some hilarious luggage-themed mix-up. People meet their partners at work, on dating sites, or through introductions from a mutual friend—I will send you the statistics.”
I know Dee means well, but I’m starting to think I should have called Vanya instead. Vanya would be all over this.
“Well, the statistics can’t always be right, can they?” I say defensively.
“Yes, they can, they absolutely can. Math never lies.” Dee sounds exasperated.
“OK, look, math aside, how do I find this guy? The airport’s closed—he has my bag. Whether he’s my soulmate or not, I still need clean knickers tomorrow.”
Dee sighs and I smile, imagining the torn expression on her face.
“Beyond the J in the card, there’s no name or address tag on the luggage?”
“No, Einstein,” I say, inspecting the bag again in case I’ve missed something.
“His name must be printed on the airline tag?” says Dee.
Why hadn’t I thought of that? Vanya definitely wouldn’t have thought of that. This is why I call Dee. I look beneath the barcode on the printed ticket.
“J. Le Maistre!” I cry.
Le Maistre. I immediately toy with the name in my head—he’s a “Le” too, just like me, another thing we have in common. Ooh, if we got married, I could keep part of my name but double-barrel the “Le’s” and be Laura Le Le Maistre. It sounds so French and chic, like someone who owns a patisserie and maybe a boulangerie too.
“I’m googling him now,” says Dee, sounding excited despite herself, “John, James . . . John again . . . hmmm, seems like Le Maistre is a common name in Jersey, there are hundreds of them. Does it look like a tree surgeon’s bag? Or a financial analyst’s bag?”
“What would I be looking for? Bags of sawdust? A catalog of calculators?”
“Are there definitely no more clues—no membership cards, receipts?”
I lay everything out on the bed, looking for something I might have missed. “Dee, you’ll be pleased to know this guy keeps his dirty clothes and running gear in a separate plastic bag away from the rest of his things.”
“Marry him,” Dee deadpans, and I laugh.
“Could we research beehive sales? Find out who’s bought a beehive lately?”
“Oh yes, I’ll just look up all the recent delivery addresses at Beehives.com,” says Dee, and I can hear the eye roll. Oh wow, even his jeans are perfect. Worn, but not too worn, stylish, but not overly so . . . “Laura, online it says the airport doesn’t close until nine?” Dee says, interrupting my thoughts about jeans.
“The phone went to answering machine.”
“Try again, or maybe go back there if it’s not far. Just because you picked up this guy’s case doesn’t mean he necessarily picked up yours. Yours could still be sitting there.”
“OK, I’m on it, I’m going,” I say, flinging Hot Suitcase Guy’s possessions back into the case.
“And, Laura,” says Dee, “don’t be nuts about this. It’s just a suitcase, you don’t know anything about this person.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Dee.”
Ha! Don’t know anything about this person? I know everything about this person. I know he’s reading my favorite book, and that he’s learning to play music by my favorite musician. I know he has the perfect-color jeans, a sexy-smelling jumper, and a quaint little holiday cabin in the woods somewhere. Plus, he buys lovely thoughtful gifts for his mother. What else do I need to know?
I try the airport number again but get the same message. I’ll have to go back. It’s only a twenty-minute drive—worth a shot.
* * *
* * *
Outside, the sun has gone down, but there is a faint dusky light in the sky. There’s a cab rank right next to the cobbled square. As I slip into the backseat of a car, I notice the driver giving me a strange look in the rearview mirror. Oh no, it’s the same driver I had before: Beardy McCastaway.
“Oh, hi again,” I say with a forced smile. “Is there only one cabdriver in Jersey then?”
“No,” he says flatly. “I had a break, came back to the rank, and now here you are. Again.”
“Right, yeah, no, I didn’t mean . . .” The man’s tone has wrong-footed me. “I need to go back to the airport, if that’s OK.”